


don't let me go

by ellesbasement (orphan_account)



Category: A Court of Thorns and Roses Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: F/M, Fluff, big sister nesta, elain & azriel brotp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-11
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-30 15:30:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,227
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11466420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/ellesbasement
Summary: post acowar | *side-eyes sjm*





	don't let me go

The first time Lucien comes to visit, Elain doesn't talk to him much. They exchange pleasantries on a cordial note, but apart from that, nothing else results from the encounter. It was to be expected, he thinks as he regards her still form. She has yet to fully warm up to him, considering all the things that happened these past few months. They spend most of the time together sitting in a silence that would almost be uncomfortable, if not for the playful shouts drifting from the hallways.

  
"Give her time," Feyre says after Elain has excused herself. "She's still ... healing." She watches Lucien—normally so silver-tongued—fidget with the lapels of his coat.

  
Lucien nods and gives the place where she was last seen a wistful look. "I think we all are."

Maybe he should stay away, but even thinking of the notion kicks his primal instincts into full gear. They tug at his heartstrings and forcibly draw him in, the connection akin to tides pushing him far out into a sea. He won't—can't bring himself to stay away. Not yet.

 

* * *

 

 

On his second, third, and fourth visits, she speaks of her garden. Even a little of what her life used to be before she'd been Made. None of the awkwardness that had stilted their conversation before is present. The words flow out of her in a steady stream, and all those years training at the courts have enabled him to detect the slight nuances to her tone. There's slight passion to the soft lilt of her tone, and it's something. She's trying, and whether it was of her own accord or Feyre's suggestion is irrelevant. Changes can be good, and this is one of them.

  
"Your hair is getting long," Elain says, holding a strand of his ruby red hair between her thumb and forefinger.

  
"Do you think I should cut it?" Lucien asks, feeling a little self-conscious himself.

  
She shakes her head. "It's great just the way it is." She lifts it up against the light, highlighting the different tones that make up the brilliant colour. "See?" Then, as an afterthought, she adds, "Of course, it's up to you. Do what you want."

  
But his mind is already made up.  


* * *

 

 

It gets easier from that point on. Relief washes over him like a tidal wave, and soon enough he knows enough about her that puts them beyond acquaintances and on the threshold of being friends. Lucien finds that it's easy to share bits and pieces of information about his life before the war. She doesn't prod or try to wheedle facts out of him; instead her presence provides a soothing atmosphere that makes him feel welcome in a way he hasn't in a long time.

  
"The Autumn Court is vicious. Bloodthirsty. Full of two-faced people. Navigating through society is like a game of chess. You constantly have to second-guess other people and really understand how the system works. It's a "one false step and you lose your head" kind of world over there," he says when Elain asks him about what he knows of the other courts.

  
"Is that why they call you Foxboy?" she says, a playful twinkle dancing in her eyes.

  
"Do they, now?" he murmurs, raising his eyebrows.

  
"Mostly Rhysand. Cassian, sometimes."

  
"How predictable," he snorts.

  
She lets out a laugh that threatens to set his heart on fire.

 

* * *

 

Lucien is nice. Kind. Not at all what she had expected, Elain thinks as she digs out a hole in the soil with her gloved hands. He'll be visiting today, and truth be told, she's really looking forward to it. She can tell that there's a lot on his mind that he isn't saying, and she gets it. Gets why.

  
"What do you think of him?" she asks Azriel, who offered to help her with the garden.

  
The shadows lurking at his shoulders flicker. "Good," he says quietly. "He has good intentions. I don't think you have to _worry_ about him."

  
She doesn't. Suspect him, that is. She hasn't for a long time. "I see," she hums thoughtfully. "Could you pass me that basket?"

  
His scarred hand wraps around the handle. She takes it from him and pulls out a squashed flower bracelet. "I have a present for you," she says, offering the bracelet to him.

  
Azriel blinks, surprise flitting across his face. "Thank you," he says, offering her a small smile and inclining his head.  
               

* * *

 

Lucien finds the shadowsinger in the garden on one of his visits. A pang of jealousy surges through him, but he allows it to sputter out; he knows better. The shadowsinger rises from his position on the grass and heads back inside. Upon seeing Lucien, the shadowsinger halts, the shadows wreathed around his muscular body churning.

  
"You were—you were with Elain?" Lucien breathes out, his mechanical eye whirring.

  
He nods, his eyes briefly glancing over to the open window. Amongst the vibrant green shrubbery and bursts of pale flowers, Elain looks positively radiant, despite the splatters of mud on her dress and face. And the smile—the smile on her face; it is a smile that he would die to see over and over again. She even gives him a wave. The young woman attends to her flowers with such tenderness, with a kind of grace that belongs to her alone. The sun, the gardens, the shadowsinger's companionship—

  
"You're good—good for her. Thank you." A warm feeling expands in his gut, and suddenly Lucien doesn't feel cold anymore. Doesn't see the male standing before him as a threat. She needed this, after all. A friend to connect with. Someone quiet. Someone patient. Truth be told, Lucien doesn't know if he could give her what she needed. After all, she'd been thrust upon him without a warning, without any prior indicator that they'd been fated together. The Cauldron above, he's never quite understood the workings behind the bonding process. It doesn't seem _fair_. Elain hadn't been given a choice in the matter—he hadn't been given one, either. For some time, he'd been wrecked by guilt over Jesminda, of how cruelly she'd been torn away from him. He hadn't known if he still had a heart left to give, but then he met Elain and figured that perhaps love was infinite.

  
Azriel's hazel eyes flicker. He doesn't speak, but the aura radiating from him lightens. His shoulders loosen, and Lucien swears a hint of a smile stole across his face for the briefest millisecond. Absently, Lucien holds out his hand. A peace offering. Azriel's gaze drops to his outstretched palm, hesitation evident in the slight furrow of his brows, but courtesy wins out and he accepts. The shadowsinger's tan skin is rough, calloused, and heavily scarred from what Lucien assumes are years of training and warfare—but it's warm at the same time. His grip is strong but not crushing, and later on Lucien wonders why this simple action made him feel not so alone anymore.

 

* * *

 

The next time Lucien comes to visit, it takes place at the height of summer. Cicadas trill in the air, the sun flares mercilessly, and the world has adopted a vibrancy, a different kind of energy, that enhances its vitality and is almost too painful to look in the eyes at the same time. Beautiful, Lucien thinks, and his thoughts take him back to a faraway place, to a crumbling manor covered with thorns and sweet bloodred roses. Then he shuts his eyes and the image drifts away into the sea of past memories. He won't allow himself to dwell on it, won't allow himself to think about _him_ , a lone figure hunched among the roses and vines, claws flashing and teeth bared. Green eyes bore into his, and Lucien finds himself winnowing away, the wind whipping at his face and the momentary darkness filling his vision enough to disperse the thought away.

  
The town house seems quiet when he reaches the landing. At first, he thinks it's because no one is there, but when he raises his fist to the door it swings open by a phantom gust of star-flecked wind. The wards around the house must have sensed him. He steps over the threshold and makes his way over to the kitchen, one of the places where Elain usually is when she's not getting her hands dirty. Peering around the doorframe, he finds the viper instead.

  
Nesta sits in front of the entrance leading to the garden beyond, her posture proper and hands folded across her lap. Back turned to him, her gaze is fixed at some point in the distance—a watchful guard in every sense of the word. Lucien might have mistaken her for Elain, except for the fact her hair is swept up in a meticulously tidy coronet and that the dress she's wearing is a shade of pewter grey, which isn't like Elain at all. Elain is all pastel shades and warmth—and there's no cruelty to her, no shrewdness to her airs. She's welcoming and sweet, everything Nesta is not. It's not that Lucien thinks badly of Nesta. He does not know much about the woman, but what he does understand is the way she is protective of Elain. She only wants to shield Elain from possible harm, and will take any blow for her. Like she wants to preserve her innocence and carefree attitude towards living.

  
"Nesta would do anything for Elain," Feyre had told him not long ago, as they were both leaning over a balcony overlooking the Sidra, the glittering ribbon of river snaking around the city. She had never really talked about her sisters before, save for the times he had asked her about Elain.

  
Lucien takes a step forward. A loose floorboard creaks underneath his weight, and Nesta's head snaps towards the noise, her blue-grey eyes flaring with irritation. " _You_." Her tongue flings out the pronoun like it's an acrid piece of fruit. "Why are you here?"

  
His gaze assesses her. Her body isn't stiff, and the sharp planes of her face suggest weariness rather than malice. Her features are set in a perpetual frown, and Lucien supposes that look is common for her. Standard, even. So while Nesta is by no means happy with his presence, the atmosphere that has filled the room suggests that she's tolerant of him at best, and five steps from merely growling at him at worst. Well. This treatment is better than what he is used to. At least they aren't on tumultuous terms anymore.

  
"I think you know why," he says lightly, unfastening the clasp at his neck. The cloak falls to his feet in a ripple of silk. Nesta raises her eyebrows. It _is_ summertime, after all, and he's wearing a cloak. Lucien bends over to pick it up, but Nesta's sharp voice arrests him. "Leave it," she snaps, her face turning back to the gardens. She rises, drawing herself up to her full height—only a few inches shorter than he is. "She's out in the back." Nesta moves to retreat into whatever dark recess she lives in, but Lucien finds himself asking, "Where are the others?" It isn't exactly a stupid question, because he really doesn't know where most of them are, and for a moment it looks like Nesta has already disappeared, but her voice reaches him from the shadows. "Sparring. The other courts. Something. I don't care enough to wonder."

  
It strikes Lucien that it's the nicest sentence she's ever spoken to him, and that perhaps she's truly gone past wanting to snap his neck at the merest indication of wanting to see Elain. It's a start, he thinks, as he heads back out into the heat, the deluge of sunlight splintering his vision. Squinting, he makes his way over to the gazebo in the middle of the lush green expanse, a sturdy wooden structure painted white and adorned with wreaths of wisterias, morning glories, and petunias. Flanking the stairs leading up to the gazebo are two grass sculptures shaped like stars. There is a gurgling sound coming from somewhere, and Lucien discovers a mini fountain that he hasn't seen before. It's hidden by hedges and bursts of pale pink flowers. It's shaped like a crescent, and the different phases of the moon are etched along the marble rim, each glowing the way Amren's—the bloodthirsty one—eyes used to before the war. Jets of frothing water shoot out from the tips of the shooting star perched atop the column in the middle of the fountain, crisscrossing in a spectacular array of arches. Upon closer inspection, he finds that the water in the fountain isn't actually water but a type of substance that has a _dazzling_ quality to it. It easily slips between his fingers, and he can also cup it without the danger of it trickling between gaps. Heavier than air and lighter than water. The garden scenery starts to fall away, replaced by thick trees and swaying wild grass, and Lucien sees _him_ , his hair gleaming like burnished gold in under the sun. Lucien's throat constricts as he sees it, that pool of starlight, and it starts dragging him back behind those rose-scented walls, and then he feels it, a tug on his ribcage, her voice spearing through the tangle of his thoughts like a tether.

  
"You should see it at night-time. It's a lot more beautiful when it's dark out." Her face is reflected in the fountain of not water, her image rippling where the jets meet the surface. _His_ _mate_. Lucien looks up and sees her, face streaked with mud and her now tanned arms bearing a pot of bright yellow daffodils. A tattered hat is nestled above her hair, and a reddish glow is painted upon her cheeks. Elain is as lively as ever, almost as bright as the sun itself. She kneels down and puts the pot aside, scooting over to the lip of the fountain.

  
Lucien tries not to pay too much attention to how fast his heart has started to beat.

  
"It doesn't look like much right now, because it's actually liquid moonlight," Elain explains, plunging her hand in. "Have you touched it?" Her lips curve with a smile, and he absently shakes his head, surreptitiously wiping his hand clean on his pants. "Okay, well, let me show you." Her small hand wraps around his own, and he's taken aback by how gentle and soft her touch is. So unlike the coarseness and firmness of the shadowsinger's grip. This is a start, he thinks.

  
She eases his hand into the moonlight, and the texture feels a lot better than before.

  
"Feel it?" she asks.

  
"It's—it's really nice," he affirms, returning her smile full force. "It's kind of like starlight, you know. There was a pool of it back in the Spring Court."

  
"Oh," Elain hums thoughtfully. "I think we could find some starlight around here. I mean, it's not called the Night Court for nothing." She lets out a breathy laugh. A joke. She'd made a joke around him, albeit not a very good one, but a joke nonetheless. Lucien's heart leaps, and he almost blurts out, "Do it again."

  
Instead, he says, "What are you working on right now?" He jerks his chin to the pot and the equipment scattered beneath the star-shaped grass sculpture.

  
At this, her face perks up, and his heart does another somersault. "Getting the daffodils to bloom. I've been thinking of the different kinds of arrangements I could make around here." She releases his hand and her arm makes a sweeping motion. "This place was such a mess before. There were a lot of weeds and all sorts of pests no one really bothered to take care of. But I guess it made it all the fun for me to fix." Her brown eyes sparkle, and there's a sudden lilt to her voice that completely enraptures him, body and soul. "I'm completely changing the theme of the gardens, in time for the upcoming Starfall." The most beautiful time of the year in the Night Court, one he has only heard about in passing but obviously never actually seen. The tales surrounding it adds a sort of magic to the mystery of the event, and Lucien finds himself leaning in, eager to know all about the changes she has done and will be doing. Of course, Lucien  knows that she hasn't seen Starfall yet either, and his mind toys with the idea of the two of them enjoying it together, under that glimmering night sky and watching the magic unfold.

  
Elain gets to her feet and manoeuvres around the shrubs and flowers, occasionally pointing at something and explaining the reasoning behind it. "I've been trying to get a hold of fireblooms and moonpetals, but they don't have them around here," she says under the shade of the gazebo, unfolding a mostly intact picture of the said flowers. "It's a shame, because I think that they'd be so lovely. The lady down in the market said that the fireblooms would only be available in the autumn, but by then it will be too late, and I'd have to wait again for next year.

  
Fireblooms. Moonpetals. Lucien remembers that fireblooms grew in great clusters back in the Autumn Court, although you couldn't find it just about anywhere. His father had a whole forest of them behind one of his many homes, a massive sprawl of red petals arranged in a radial array and topped with bright yellow asters that held everlasting but harmless fire. Moonpetals are a different matter altogether; they're a rare species of plant that he's only seen twice in all his centuries of living, so rare that they might as well be a product of myth.

  
"When I was a child, my mother told me that moonpetals were pieces of the old god Luna's soul," he says. "I believed her, and I still believe her, because I've seen them myself."

  
Elain's eyes widen. "Really?" she says. "Wow, I would really like to have them now." She gives the empty patches of dirt along the fountain a wistful look, wringing her gloved hands. "Although, I've heard that they're really hard to take care of." She bites her lip, and Lucien blushes, looking away. "Hm, what about fireblooms?"

  
"I can show it to you now, if you'd like," he offers a little shyly, a little surprised by the intensity of her gaze.

  
"Really?" She lets out a squeal that turns his insides into mush, and once again he's reminded of how different she is from Jesminda, who had been all fire and seductiveness.

  
Lucien nods, tugging at the collar of his shirt. "Of course, I don't have the actual flower with me right now, but I can show you a version," he says. "And it would be, uh, better if it was darker." Then, he quickly adds, "It doesn't—it doesn't really have to be darker. I just thought—I mean, it would just enhance the overall effect ..." he trails off, chiding himself for his stuttering, but thankfully Elain hasn't remarked on it.

  
"Even better," she says, tugging off her hat.

 Her hair falls around her face in a cascade of golden-brown waves, and Lucien is swept by an urge to stroke it—feel how soft it is beneath his fingers. "I know of a good spot. Nesta likes going there sometimes when it's cooler out, although don't tell her I said that." Nesta would most likely kill him before attempting it. Elain's fingers wrap around his bicep, leading him to the place. A sweet, floral scent fills his nostrils, mixed with another smell of earth and sunlight, and he tries not to inhale too much of it, lest he gets carried away. She pulls him into a large, perfectly circular bush that is hollow in the inside, the leafy dome supported by a long wooden branch. It's spacey enough that Lucien doesn't need to tuck into himself to fit, duck his head, or press against Elain, although he is not opposed to the aforementioned idea. And now he gets why Nesta wouldn't want her habit to be publicly known; he feels kind of silly himself. Sunlight filters through the gaps between the leaves, and a sliver of light falls across Elain's face, illuminating her soft brown eyes and the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. _Beautiful_.

  
Lucien's eyes fall to her lips, and dimly he thinks of what they would feel like pressed against his own.

  
"Show me now," she urges him with childlike fervour, a smile breaking out across her features.

  
He blinks, once, then twice, before regaining his senses. "Of course," he breathes out, making a bowl shape with his palms. Red fire blossoms in the space between them, twisting and dancing and flickering.

  
"Don't worry, the leaves won't catch fire," he assures Elain, upon catching the widening of her eyes.

Worry disappears from her face, and the dreamlike, fevered curiosity returns. Lucien wills the fire to assume a petal-like shape. This part required careful concentration, because it wasn't every day that he practiced this particular skill-set; there had never been any use of it. The fire shudders and slows its movement, and then, as though forced down a tight tube, it narrows into a stalk through a spiral motion. The top end of the stalk flares in a burst of flame, tapering off into flickering leaves. An aster of yellow fire forms on top of the petals, emitting sparks that lazily drift in the air between them. A cluster of sparks float down to the tip of Elain's nose, disintegrating upon contact.

  
"That's ... cute," Lucien murmurs.

  
Elain lets out a laugh. Her eyes are transfixed on the flame flower, which is slowly rotating on its axis. "Can I—can I touch it?" Her fingers reach out slowly, tentatively.

  
"Go ahead."

  
The young woman gasps. Lucien jumps up, his instincts kicking in, ready to ask her what happened or if she's hurt, but she says, "It doesn't really feel of anything. It's like—" her eyes squeeze shut in contemplation —"like air. Like nothing. Thinking about it, it kind of tickles but otherwise it's just beautiful."

  
Beautiful. _Just like you_ , he wants to say but doesn't. "I guess," Lucien allows. "I wish I could give it to you. I'd need to think of a way to make it possible first."

  
"Please do," she says, and there's a sparkle in her gaze that he's never seen before.

  
He curls his palms, and the darkness swallows up the flame, the remaining sparks in the air drifting gently to the floor and sputtering out like a candle.

  
The sun is especially harsh on his eyes after all that time spent in the dark, but Elain recovers with such a startling speed that she's back tending to her blooms. Her chatter fills the warm summer air, and Lucien finds he's perfectly content to lounge against the gurgling moonlight fountain and just hearing the sound of her voice. And he finds that this is the first time in a long while that he's truly felt happy, and he wouldn't trade it for anything else in the entire world. If his heart were an orchestral piece, this would be the climax of the music, his heart crescendoing high up into the sky. And in that moment maybe it didn't matter if she accepted him, because he would always pick her.

 

* * *

 

A while later, Nesta appears at the doorframe, every bit as regal and imposing as a queen even when she's not trying to intimidate anyone into submission. Arms folded across her chest, her face remains impassive as she surveys the scene in front of her. The sun has started to dip into the horizon, the sky darkening into a bruised purple blue colour. Elain is relentless, showing no signs of fatigue or halting her work.

  
"There's food, if the two of you want any," she calls out to the both of them, and although it's clear that she's only addressing him for Elain's sake and not out of _actual_ fondness for him, it's a good sign that the possible worst she would do to him is ignoring him and thankfully _not_ freezing off his balls if he looks so much in the wrong way at her.

  
Elain puts away all her equipment and trudges back into the house, Lucien following suit. As mentioned, there's a hot meal waiting for them at the table: bread rolls, meat stew, and buttered peas. And as expected, Nesta takes up a seat at the head of the table. Elain and Lucien shortly disappear into the kitchen to run their grimy hands under a stream of cool water before returning.

  
As Lucien drags back his chair, he notices a neatly folded sheet of silk on top of the seat. His cloak. Nesta had told him to leave it, and so he did, but he didn't quite expect that she would take care of it. Touched, his eyes flicker to Nesta, who holds his gaze coolly.

"The food's getting cold," she says, stabbing at her peas.

  
That's about as much acceptance by Nesta that he will most likely ever get, but it's enough. More than enough, in fact.

**Author's Note:**

> tfw when you care about that one character who was supposed to be important yet barely got any screentime in acowar. sjm can go catch these HANDS—and money. anyway, on a more serious note, i started writing this story w/ the intention of making it about a crackship, but the initial plotline i had in mind veered off into something totally different. so, bam, this happened. this one-shot was actually meant to have another part, but i’m kind of burned out right now so this is it for now.


End file.
